Margie's birthday

It’s Margie’s 96th birthday today, and she greeted me, “The Queen has died. She beat me to it, and on my birthday, too. I always wondered which of us would go first.”

She added ruefully, “I wouldn’t say I ever felt connected with the Queen. I grew up as a poor Jewish kid in the Bronx, our lives were totally different, but I was always aware we were the same age. I guess it was a type of measure. The newspaper would say something about her, or there would be a photograph, and I’d think, ‘I’m the same age.’ Now it’s her death, and I know I could go any day. That’s fine with me, I’m ready. I only wish my memory could be as dependable as my legs.”

I said her thinking is clear and sharp, even if her short-term memory is not, and she immediately shot back, 

“That’s because I think with my heart,” she gestured to a line between head and heart. “My heart informs me of what I need to know. But I still wish I could remember what happened yesterday.”